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Tag: Poetry

It was like a black and white photograph that you see along the staircases of your home, a happy memory captured in time slicing through the open spaces of the realities and the nine-millimeter frames. I woke up realizing that I have dreamt something beautiful this morning, something that took me to the bluest skies that one would see in a canvass of sunflowers and daffodils, tangerine fields and golden mango summer days. I wandered off, over and across the horizons with the feathered pilots in flight, doing their routine of salutations, passing through and by the cloud formations that were tasked to do a portrayal of the world they see below, a beautiful imitation, a sculpting rendition from the shape-shifters of the light. The white paint of the ceiling, the walls of the bedroom, the slow dancing of the curtains highlight the sun showers that invited themselves just to help out, lending a hand to magnify the unfolding of the hopeful summer feeling stemming from within.

Lying next to me is a warm, beautifully placed tanned body with all the white sheets and the cushions that cradled us into slumber the night before. And for someone like me, it is only fitting to throw the most fundamental questions of how and why it got there in the first place. As I found myself dumbfounded, she slowly opened her brown almond-shaped eyes, then a long lingering look directly aiming into my prying eyes. She then surveyed the rest of my face, from the forehead down to my buttoned nose, on the sides, chin and the cheeks while taking her time and breaking this gentle smile as she then rested her gaze right back to where it all started. She then whispered something in my ear, some thoughts about cotton candies and marshmallows and vanilla ice cream and brewed coffee while tucking her face between my shoulder and my jawline, as I now feel the warmth of her breath on the left side of my neck.

As I give in, I suddenly felt the need to dispense this undeniable sensation, sneaking my right arm around my universe, wrapping my present and my tomorrows within the reach of my arms and my left and right hands’ fingertips, holding onto my supernova.

I suddenly got the feeling of when you are on the beach, raptured by this unsolicited fulfillment, sitting and listening to the crashing of the waves against your feet. The warm welcome of the inviting ocean, plunging in while rediscovering and relishing the sunlight on your imperfect skin and stained shirt, as the saltiness of the waters and the powdery promises of the sands of time are all you ever needed for the remainders of your days.

I took a few drags after lighting a cigarette and opened a book reading a couple of chapters from where I left off. It took me a while to realize that it was the world I am living in that the words were describing. I held her hand next to my chest. We were slouching and care freed by the open windows with our sunglasses on, with crossed legs and our weekend smiles. Coffee and Vanilla ice cream, Root beers and Jack Johnson, conversations after conversations, we talked about finding answers and an aimless attempt to look for an escape and what solitude really means, on how to outlast father time and getting the most out of each conscious moment and decisions. And from the openings of her brilliance, she made something out of the blowing winds and the subtleness of the ether as she paints the canvass through her imagination of life brushes and watercolors.

Some would prefer to throw a peace sign and be on TV all greased and combed up, neatly dressed and all buttoned up, calling out everyone to put out a flag but for me, I prefer her way. Just an honest display of what was and what we aspire to be at. I guess all we ever needed was our sun, and a few bucks to get us by with our words and cigarettes.

But life most of the times is not as colorful as the stories we read from all the pages we encounter. In a way, what we get from these dog-eared pages is just the fuel that help gets us going from one town to the next rest stop for another gas pump. And after paying for what’s due, there’s always this invitation to make a phone call with a few spare change that we have got, to give thanks to the ones that made the journey possible and true.

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It was 09:30 pm. I was watching all of the outlining lights of the city from my apartment terrace view while finishing a good bowl of freshly heated ramen from the microwave. Something caught my attention. As I moved my head upwards to my right, just across from where I sat, I saw what appeared to be an audience. There sat a frog, smoking its long and lean wooden pipe. Apparently, it was not just any ordinary frog. I could tell from the prints and the design of his robe. He was sporting a well-maintained facial hair growing from his small chin, the strands were grayish white, telling me that he’s been around for quite some time. He had his legs crossed together, while awkwardly dabbling his webbed toes in the air. He was sitting on the edge portion of the neighboring roof and he’s always been doing the same routine for years.

Of course, I never knew this since my family just moved into a new home. We had financial difficulties since my father died and wanted to start over.

As a matter of etiquette and good manners, I signaled to him if he wanted some of what I was having — raising the bowl chin high and directing the chopsticks towards it.

“I had flies. Thank you” with a mischievous smile on his face, the frog politely declined. He then followed it with what you can say an offensive remark.

“You’re not the neighbor I was expecting to have”.

I had to ask why of course, almost choking on a string of noodle.

“My dreams told me that the next neighbor is the one who’s going to help me with my mathematics. I was observing you these past days and I can’t see any signs at all that you have what it takes. I think you’re a slacker, you just stare at photographs in your phone and you have a nasty habit of picking your nose.”

For a while there I felt very insulted. This is not the type of conversation you have at first meetings. But I know his kind. Old folks tend to speak this way. They would go about it as if it is their inherent and social right or something. My old professor spoke like this frog and it kind of reminded me of him. We were good friends until he went abroad for his treatments.

As the hundreds of matchbox lights from the façade of the buildings paint a mosaic landscape, the frog and I had started conversing. We talked about a lot of interesting things. My favorite was about the undiscovered colors that he dreamt about. These were colors that this world hasn’t seen yet. And it had something to do with our eyes he said, preventing us from really seeing.

The cold September breeze on that silent Tuesday evening called for it, I guess. While the hot broth slowly loses its warmth, replacing it with the oddity of that night, I was taken to places in my mind that I thought never existed.

The stranger then opened about his long-lost love. He began by telling the story on how they first met.

He was in his younger self squatting on a pond leaf under the biggest moon of that year. The fireflies that lingered about, just far enough for him to reach were the brightest stars that night.

He was instructed by his mother to hunt for pond flies that nested on the very surface of the still waters. “Be one with the leaf” she said, “and hold very still to have a successful hunt, have the required patience.” He was waiting for hours for the right timing when a more experienced frog easily snatches his prey away. She was hunting from a tip of the tree branch just over the pond. And from the moment he laid his eyes on her long-lightning-speed-whipping-tongue, he knew that she was the one.

As he was going over the story, I went inside and poured us some ginger juice and got something to smoke. And when I came back, I pinched a fingertip of tobacco from my cigarette into his empty wooden pipe and offered him a light.

“Have you met yours?” he wondered staring blankly to the sky.

I said I was not sure. And even if have, it wouldn’t matter. She was gone already and there was no point of remembering a tragic story. It would only bring you regrets and keep you awake most nights.

He smoked his long wooden pipe, blowing feebly into the air and nods.

I scratched my bearded jaw and rested my numbing head placing the whole weight in the open palm of my left hand and the rest of the elbow against the wooden arm of the chair. And from time to time I was unconsciously nail-biting and dozing while the neighbors were watching their endless drama anthology on TV.

“Are they always like this every night?” The old frog just smiled away. I knew that he had learned to accept it, the same way that he had accepted the loss of his greatest love.

I felt sad for him. As if I was in the singularity of the black hole of his loneliness. It felt like I was never going anywhere, at the same time drifting away.

“A once healthy body is now starting to deteriorate as the numbers of time are catching up. You’d realize just about before it ends that your life as you know it had already passed you by along with all the unspoken questions in your lifetime. The answers had sailed far away into the oceans of the wandering and the forgotten.”

It was almost a mumble, but I heard the old frog’s every word.

Then I responded by saying that it was not my intention to make him feel sad, but I was so glad all the same for the chance. For these are the exact words I thought had slipped away from my writing hands fifty ink cartridges ago. And I never had the opportunity to hear the reading of these lines out loud.

“And all the anecdotes and old love letters may seem nostalgic now, but I hope you’d agree with me when your time to scribble has finally come.” It was almost an attempt to cheer him up. But I couldn’t tell if it was working or not. He just repositioned his right leg placing his knee right next to his shoulder and puffed on his wooden pipe, displaying his mischievous smile while the subtle whistling of the eastern winds and the throbbing percussion of the monsoon rains started to come and drenched us hopeful and drunk.

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I found myself in the middle of a room full of people as I was beginning to get this slight nauseous feeling from my erratic claustrophobia that was starting to creep in. I was on a train roaming past the landmarks of the metro, on my way to the place I call the safest for me. We were squished like sardines in a can. I could feel the throbbing beats from a vein that was magnified, residing on the right side of my forehead and the sweat dripping like lava from the surface of the scalp down to my nape. My whole body mass was depending on the athletic abilities of my toes to keep me from getting out of balance. And in every stop upon arrival at each station, these brave toes of mine were constantly at war with the unrelenting inertia. No handrail was near enough for the rescue and the only available consolation was the blowing of the feeble breeze coming from the small opening of the air-conditioning vent.

It felt like I was drowning, keeping my head above the waters of the crowd as our bodies were waving back and forth and sometimes in these almost circular motions during abrupt turns through the sea of rail tracks, electricity and concrete.

I rested my aimless thoughts on this moving view that I got from the window just below the vent. And after a few moments, I noticed these whimsical formations of dark clouds in the sky starting to connive.

I hurriedly took a quick survey through the open spaces available on both sides of the train, between the bodies of the sardines to see how the skies were. I was worried.

All of a sudden, just like that, it started to drizzle. And surprisingly it felt like the world was the skies’ grand piano, each raindrop was a musical note gently keyed in by this invisible hand.

In that silent moment, I was convinced that each living soul was part of the melody and the verses that made up the entire piece. That we mattered.

It began with a slow dance of the countless raindrops on a mission to make everyone feel overly romantic. In a way of gently saying that a little delay was on its way, and it was okay.

My home was approximately 14 kilometers away. The circumstance was telling me that I had plenty of time to be lost in this void within me. I was beginning to be numbed by the motionless state of my consciousness. Then, I was drifted towards the compartments of my mind, finally finding a soothing memory, reliving the entire experience in my head for six more times just enough before finally getting to the next station.

Then the consciousness took me to the episodes of climbing trees, listening to really good music, fishing by the sea, travelling probably with someone really close. I began to think of the closest people I know, on how little time I spent with my family and friends. I thought of changing that, I thought of falling in love, the possibility of marrying someone soon and settling down for good. I also thought of getting lost somewhere really far perhaps, enjoying a glass of whiskey in the night time — a quiet time for myself. Then I remembered something about borrowing a book from a good friend, also considering buying a copy if I liked it, thoughts of the things that really mattered.

Maybe I was over thinking it, but I got this feeling that we were trapped there for a reason. I felt grateful for these realizations. And despite the initial display of reluctance, my legs were no longer minding the pins and needles sending me back to reality.

Then I was pulled back to my consciousness and the once full coach was beginning to free up. The sardines were rushing out of the exits of the platform going their separate ways, swimming past the reefs of this vast ocean of life just to be willingly caught again to the promises of tomorrow.

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Lightning and thunder had always carried a pull of interest to my imagination, of the tales that they would always bring, on how lightning can magically take its physical form out of sheer nothingness to these flashes of a great declaration of its very discerning presence.

Even as a grown-up it would always take me wondering, what if it is more than just an atmospheric disturbance, more than just a by-product of the mixture of the warm and cold air. What if?

Often times it is perceived as this very frightening notion that still hunts the living daylights out of our grown-up selves.

I remember as a child, me and my best friends would always think of lightning as the clashing of the broadswords of the Giants that fought over the terrains of the clouds. Our nanny would also say that it can also be seen as a crooked hand of the grim reaper reaching for the souls of the dying. Or sometimes, it is being used as a bridge by the “Engkantos” when they travel to reach the other realms to harness mystical powers.

When these bedtime stories got the very best of us, we would always hide under the force field of the sheets and our blankets; each of us curled up like an Armadillo in the presence of its slayer. As this was the first of our many tactical maneuvers.

You’ve always got to have a defensive strategy. And this was ours.

We would then hold on to our flashlights to counter the striking and blinding power of our unpredictable foes, the Lightning.

To time when would be their next attack, we would always try to catch patterns by counting the seconds from the last lightning strike to the next. By doing this, we would know when to uncover and open fire.

But, we found ourselves stuck in a predicament. Although we are protected by our force field, we are as blind as a bat. The blankets are too thick for us to be able to see when the last lightning strike was. We’d be fried if we ever took a chance. And we figured we were outnumbered, we can’t afford to have any casualties.

“We have got to work with what we have”. A very compelling voice from our esteemed captain, He was also our neighbor.

And my brother and I looked at each other and came up with this brilliant strategy.

Since we cannot uncover, we will have to rely on the roaring sounds of the thunder. But the giants, despite their looks, are highly intelligent to have come up to delay the sound of thunder after each terrible lightning strike. And it took us quite some time to have figured out the patterns to solve this puzzle.

We counted 1, 2, then the thunder would come, and 1,2,3,4, then another, 1, and another roar, it was so random and almost impossible to decipher. We wrote all of the patterns on the back pages of my P.E. notebook, the one I never got to use a lot anyway, and discovered that despite the chaos, and its unpredictability, there’s this unique pattern that came out.

All we’ve got to do now is to make sure that we’ve got enough ammunition.

So my brother, our weapons specialist, made sure that a good supply of 9-voltage batteries was available, that we hid under the blue pillow we call our armory. These were recharged batteries. We believed that we can still use drained disposable batteries when you recycled and recharged it all day under the heat of the sun.

As I was waiting for the Captain’s signal, I wiped the sweat off of my palms against my battle uniform, which I also wear when I sleep, my pajamas. I was ordered to strike when it is time. And we believed that the light coming from our flashlights, our weapon of choice, can make holes through the clouds where the giants take their cover. And if we made just enough holes, they would fall from the skies, and the impact of the fall would kill them.

I held 2 flashlights, in case one would fail. Our first offensive strike was very crucial as this may be, the only chance we have. The giants are not expecting that we have figured out their secret, and if this was deemed to be a failure, they’d definitely change the thunder patterns and we will be defeated.

Time was not on our side as well.

Children get easily bored and unable to stay up that late. This was our weakness. If we fell asleep, they could easily snatch the win and we won’t be able to wake up again.

The Captain mumbles… with his eyes closed, calibrating and reading the flashes from the lightning and the roars of thunder. And almost in slow motion, gave the wave, gesturing the signal to attack.

“This is it, brother! You can do this! We’re all counting on…”

The last of the encouraging words from my twin was unheard, for it was abruptly interrupted by the blinding lightning strikes that were immediately followed by the deafening drum rolls of thunder. This was the last wave of their attack! A showdown between the soldiers of the light and the towering guardians of death itself!

The Captain reveals our frail bodies from all the sheets and pillows that helped camouflage us.

And he yelled, “Go, and Do it!” And I knew we were done the moment I saw the two of them, fading away, falling on the bedroom floor.

But I was able to stretch both of my arms high, and towards the window, I went, as each step was proven a struggle by our enemies’ blunt remorseless gestures. I was able to reach the wall, then showing myself, aiming to the great marsh of the night clouds, holding both weapons as long as I could until I was taken out by the giants’ hard hitting blows.

Then I was out. The 3 of us died in this great battle.

The next morning, the sunlight reveals the ruins of last night’s battle. Pillows and blankets were on the floor, the debris of toys fallen from the shelves, and our fallen bodies on the ground.

And when we woke up, we realized that we were crushed, and have died tragically from last night’s war.

Then we smiled and agreed that we’ll be astronauts the next night.

Yelling — “Let’s prepare for a mission!”

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At this point the summery warm love embraces of the morning sun are starting to bring in life to everything on its path, showering everyone with its unprejudiced, unbiased attention, attempting to overthrow the glittering and sophisticated beauty of the nights that came before. As its skillful sable brushes dabble freely into the skies using it as its color palette where all the pigments are mixed on, I looked up towards its direction, with my right hand placed over my eyes, looking through the fingers as I bask in the morning’s gentle sun shower.

In my thoughts, I made a recording of this grand majestic order that I believe still lingers. As I take a stride toward these unspoken summer feelings, my consciousness decides not to limit myself to what this world may soon only have. And before the darkness blots out the sky with smoke and gunpowder, I will dispense my thoughts, through my skipping pen, writing about this beautiful world, before it ceases to exist. So let me go for a little while, don’t wait up, for I will be taking my time harnessing all the goodness that still prevails before genocide becomes the most common word spoken, and body parts are used for confetti to proclaim glory. Let me go back to the very beginning of my daydreaming.

I remember the time when we were treading on the cliff side of the mountain to a place we heard holds a glimpse of how afterlife should be. It had rained a few hours before, making the way very slippery. The rocks were unsteady in their place, the bushes along the narrow pathway make it harder to maneuver, but luckily our timely arrival led our exhausted feet to a gathering of the dried up leaves that had fallen on the ground, I mean they were so giving, that even in their dying moments they were still able to provide traction in this muddy and dangerous traverse.

And in those tailored fit moments, time stood still, and the warmth we felt from within was starting to build up. I guess real miracles happen in the most unexpected times, in the most ordinary of forms. From the unfolding of life from a small seed that will soon reach great heights, from the meeting of the endpoints of the stalagmites and stalactites, as they inch their way for millions of years just for that single, longing touch. The perfect lighting from the summer sun for that perfect moment for the lovers at the bridge arching over a river, the inspired poets and the dreamers who sit by its banks, with their thoughts and prose floating like driftwood in the water. During those days life was good, we were wanderers but never quite lost, always looking up, bidding clear skies so we may also find our way back in the longing arms of our loved ones, like the setting sun in the ocean.

I am dreaming in this daydream, and somehow the clouds took her into my arms and as I was dancing her off into the crowd, I realized that she was as graceful as a butterfly in the park on an idle Sunday morning. Her eyes glazed like honey, and she was as cool as ice cream. And over my shoulder, she rests her soft chin and reached up to the sky to hold the moon between her fingertips. She then painted the starry night with her waterfalls of imagination, tasting the clouds like cotton candies as her finale.

And we knew that this familiar feeling will soon be back. We were hitchhikers in the east, treading home, now undressing our backpacks from their rain-covers, filling them up with farewells and good memories. As we rest all of our expectations in the sky’s eternal influence, stretching on farther and farther over the town’s little hut-houses, to the tens and hundreds of hectares of rice fields we pass by, we found ourselves embraced and now drenched with sunbeams.

And it felt so exclusive.

So the next time I receive a phone call from you or a friend through a can on a string, I will try to be more ready. Putting my worn down shoes on, stringing them well, traveling with nothing in my pocket but a few change for a phone call home, a few clothes and a flask in my pack, just relishing the time getting lost in these words I read to you, for another round of life’s awesome adventure.

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We strolled up the empty sidewalks of what could have thought to be an abandoned zombie land in its much later days when the once flesh munching dead are now hunted in extinction, leaving the vastness of the highways and the city to ourselves. It was around half past the hour of 1, and our consciousness now forgetting about abstinence and sobriety as everything around us swirled over and swaying sideways, we couldn’t tell what was what and from a calm steady pace we picked up speed, in her heels and in my trusty walkers. We were runaways in the night.

We glanced from time to time over our shoulders, always on the lookout for what else was out there. From a stick that snaps, or from a sudden movement of the shadows, to a howling watchdog, for us, each was a potential threat. Luckily the pavement we were running on was a good friend to us, leaving no tracks but our lungs, on the other hand, were not able to deliver. We ran, only as fast as we could. And we panted hard, we thought we were about to die yet we smile as we catch every breath grateful, scared and feeling free. The police in their size forty twos are too lazy to go this far of the stretch this time of the night we thought. But we knew it was a different story altogether in the morning.

We were outside of a convenience store, sat down on the gutter, and administered caffeine, nicotine and what was a beautiful blunder between us. I took out a flask and dashed a little into each cup. The space in the middle of our casting stares was just an imaginary line, our equator. There were no stars on sight, a proxy, however, was gracious enough to share its blessings, coming from the lights of the commercial spaces, glowing out of the towering boastful skyscrapers and from the budget conscious government installed highway lamp posts which accidentally imposing a mood-setting feel for the tranquil and the peaceful. And from this, we borrowed a warm and sublime feeling and placed it through our rib-cages inside our chests, our lives on a silver platter.

She began to open her lips, as she also started to utter the words that are now passing through the upper and lower openings of her mouth. I couldn’t remember what exactly they were about, but I knew it was something relatable to a timeless anthem or an unwilted flower in the summer. After throwing a few, she tires and fell very silent but amazingly the conversation never stopped. The peaceful night and the surreal drowsing wind that brushes our hair and what else there did the talking for us. And we listened and translated each unspoken moment in silence to ourselves, and by and by we break a smile and inhaled. Her camera was confiscated earlier and it was smashed into a million pieces against a concrete wall. We tried to salvage the film but it was no good as well, and so we took mental pictures instead of what was there to take. And there were no thoughts to be withdrawn we figured. Just forward gestures of positivity, testimonials and wishful thinking. We heard of this place somewhere north, where all great poets and the dreamers go; we talked about it for a while, escaping for good and living there and all. But she only wanted to take pictures for now, and write. She’s not done yet, she says.

We fill the ashtray nearly full at this point.

A condensed thought and asked for another. It was almost morning lying on a field of grass under the trees. I was trying to understand what she meant as I try to get a chance to recover and to steal a final glance to help me remember. Turning to her side, elevating myself on an elbow hoping for the night to linger on, to hold still. This was ours, the night we stole from the world but one can only throw a prayer. So in the final seconds we decided to put on our sunglasses as the deafening sound from the blades of the helicopters and the wailing sirens are now coming to a close, we thought of St. Peter and the rest of the saints waiting at the pearly gates. We smoked the remainders of our cigarettes while eating apples, tucking away our northern star, our way of surrender in the early morning sun.

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His fingers travel, hitting a slide note across the fret board of the maple wood. And with all of his heartfelt might, it implores a gentle bend towards the end of what appears to be a decent soundtrack for a short film. The notes from the verses were taking their time drifting past the universe of my ever wandering mind. As I was sitting there slouching on the kitchen chair with so much ink in my head, I was chasing off the day when I first met her on Mars through the lenses of a telescope. When we held hands on its dotted surface, the day when we made Saturn the most envious across and all, and the lingering memory of how my eyes tried to hold on to a rocket ship flight, memorizing all its reds and its silvers, the comet painted across its wings and the flaps, a single journey with the knob of the volume turning notches higher, amplifying this sunburst feeling from within.

Got me a clean white page to begin with, then a cup of coffee to limber up these senses to wake. Scribbling across with a free hand with whatever thought that comes in mind to finish the blueprint for the machine I was building. I had my body bent going over page by page, prepping up a map for the series of time and rest stop destinations I was planning to visit. As the first of the many sun shining graces came in, sharing a little act of compromise, it took me back to when the younger days seemed to be a little bit longer, when learning about the final frontier and day dreaming about fighting in an alien invasion were still a bit romantic and all you ever needed for energy was to look up to the space and the constellations and your endless imagination will never fail you to nourish.

It was hard to play pretend so I decided to go down into the basement and put on my time traveller’s suit. I was back peddling in time, checking the gauges making sure that there will be just enough fuel for the return trip. But unlike Doctor Emmett’s flux capacitor, mine was powered by bourbon. A glass, submerging myself as it found me peace amidst the clutter. It was surprisingly quiet.

A whisper to oneself, landing a long summer thought in slow motion as I sat there dumbfounded in the cockpit of this time-craft staring at the most colourful lights that flicker. I was trying so hard to remember what each switch was for. There were blue lights and orange, red and some yellow ones. An ejection metal lever, a navigational stick in front of me and the driving wheel with easy to push ignition accelerators for both thumbs. It was a crazy science fiction I would say. There were also the high-tech monitors that surround me, dashboard after dashboard, and of course, a big round red button that I dared not to push, but really tempting to. The only thing I got right so far was putting the seat-belt on. I was about to hit on the state of panic, when my peripheral vision made a sudden breakthrough. There laid beside the pilot’s seat a sealed envelope that was addressed to whoever was going to encode the starter pin for this vessel with a writing that says: “No rush, it will come to you”. With the entire child’s curiosity in me that was screaming to do what was obvious, I hurriedly opened the envelope, tearing through what was inside and what awaited me. It was a mixed tape, reminding me to relish the inevitable and the course I was about to take.

The song plays, I was ripped, an eject and rewind to repeat routine. I turned my head on the ceiling light beams from the digital stars that rest over my head. The ignition starts, I was leaning my head against the headrest of the well cushioned seat, covering my eyes just enough to have a glimpse of the sun shining that breaks through the time machine’s wind shield and side windows as the time machine started to ascend. I was hoping that somewhere between the memorized lines of this two-minute soundtrack, that the notes from the chords initiate an easy-going para-sailing through the vortex of the past.

A lingering mental picture of her face in the sun, I remember the smell of daisies in her cheeks, throwing the words and punching the keys, uncompromising this time, as the first lines were dispensed, they talked about lemonades and the skylines, taking me back somewhere beneath the shade of the coconut trees, road trips and the speeding cars that raced against fate. All the slurring drunk romantic thoughts, all the fondness inside that grew, as they leave a familiar line across the chest.

I tried to take it all in, as I was in search for the excitement that once kept me going, of whatever was there to take, of what I was allowed to, as I opened the time traveller’s starter kit user manual to get me going. The subtleness of the lights from around me were painting hues of the different impressions of the world outside, they were like stage actors, with their theatrical portrayal of the sunlight in the early morning.

I was going back in time, the world around me started to stretch, I was on hyper drive. I was traveling in the speed of light with a subliminal velocity. Funny that I can go back but never can touch to alter what was there in front of me. I was like a ghost that nobody sees. But It was a good thing though. One should have the humility to take the binoculars when the world hands over the opportunity to take a sneak peak to the grand miracles laid outside our door steps, emulating these lessons well taught, taking the time learning to breeze through the dog eared parchment pages of each turning moment, a chance not to change, but offering a new start to just rescue the words for another rendition.

As it dawns nearer, approaching the prelude of the second verse of the inspired song that plays, the cigarette now rests on the mouth of the ash tray while I race my fingertips to descend upon kissing the keys.

The symphony from each touch on a collaborative motion of what seemed to be random, was a gathering of these far-fetched thoughts somewhere deep down, going back to the romantic biases I keep.

Coming around from the corner of my thoughts and towards the end of the last chorus that plays, I remember on how everyone would always sing along to this song in those days, while clutching on to our chests with eyes closed and an open lung, taking in a well dispensed advice from an inanimate friend, the shadow of the day, to always brave the distance of these unfolded tomorrows, embracing the truth of the co- existence of our yesterdays and today, that no matter what , we will always have one another, a beautiful tradition of how everyone was.